Alone
by Rightor
Summary: He was alone, and it was his fault. He was the one who had gotten comfortable and he was the one who wronged his family and he was the one who was ignorant enough to believe that his brothers and sisters wouldn't strike back. Thanks to his ignorance, he had to live with the aftermath of his consequences, and he has to live with the fact there isn't a thing he can do about it.


**A/N: Quick drabble. A prompt I saw online and decided to make as a story. I have absolutely no idea if this has been done before but I decided to do it anyway. Don't judge too harshly as I did this sometime around 2 in the morning, but I hope you enjoy anyway. It's a bit sad, so if you're not into those times of fanfics I recommend not reading, but if you do, commentary is extremely appreciated! :)**

He shut his eyes, just for a second, as if that'd do anything to help the pain he'd felt for centuries. He hoped it would. Prayed even. Who to exactly? He wasn't really sure. Heaven was corrupt once more, his father was MIA, and his second oldest brother was rampaging throughout the world looking for a new vessel. It was practically anarchy, but there he sat, the back of his head pressed against the bunker wall, his eyes shut, and his hand tightly gripping a cold, glass beer-bottle.

His stomach felt hollow and his mind was blank. He let out a small breath, opening his eyes and looked around the bunker; his home. Everything was exactly how they'd left it. There was even an empty beer bottle sitting next to a large bookshelf of lore that had been placed there and hadn't been touched since. He didn't want to disturb it. Everything in this house was practically holy. Everything in this house meant something; the empty pie-containers, the screwed up beds in their bedrooms, the tilted picture-frames that sat on shelves here and there.

He hadn't felt anything really in a long time. One or two centuries maybe. He lost count after a couple hundred days of not feeling. He stared absentmindedly at the kitchen where he pictured their every move as they'd laugh and fight and sometimes even pass out after a really long hunt. He'd picture them each holding a similar beer bottle to the one he held now and he'd picture them bickering over a new case or what to do next to save the world once more.

For the past three or so centuries, he'd sat alone in the bunker, watching the rooms as if he could actually see them moving, see them screaming or drinking or laughing or hugging. As if they were still there, still occupying the space he'd grown to live in as their home. His chest felt constricted, his lungs found it hard to exert the carbon dioxide it'd create after he'd inhale a breath, but there wasn't any aching pain as there had been a few hundred years ago.

Even though his kind wasn't supposed to feel, or really think for that matter, he'd always been an exception. He'd been the dissenter, he'd led a rebellion against his family, and he had paid the price. For a few decades, everything seemed stable. He had watched them continue what they considered their family business, hunting down creatures and monsters and ghouls and spirits, and nothing seemed to disrupt the peace that had blanketed the world for the time being. But he should've known better. He should've... should've learned something from mistakes in the past.

It was his fault, and he knew it. He should've had his, what they called, angel-radio turned to full-blast at all times and he shouldn't have let his guard down. He was the one to blame for what happened and it was on him. To think that all of his surviving brothers and sisters would agree with what he had done, ruining plans that had been set in stone for ions over and over again, was arrogant of him and now he had to live with the lasting effects of the consequences.

He stood, his limbs whining in protest as he walked over to the table that was worn and chipped which stood in the center of the library, bottle in hand. He brought the beer to his lips and let the sensation burn down his throat, as if that'd clear a bit of the guilt that weighed down on him like rocks. He'd seen them do it time after time, hide their emotions under gallon upon gallon of alcohol, telling each other they were fine, and burying those feelings under layers and layers of lies. Sometimes they caught the lies, other times they didn't. Either way, he had seen them do it and had tried their method continuously, but each time he let the sizzling substance roll down his throat, all it managed to do was burn the inner layer of his esophagus.

Shaking his head of the thoughts that haunted it day and night, he pulled one of the chairs that screeched in protest from the table and sat down. He grabbed a few newspapers that had been sprawled out on it and began looking for anything that seemed out of the ordinary. He read and read until the ink-colored letters blurred together and he placed the paper back down on the table and leaned back into the seat, concerned the old wood would break, but ignoring that thought as well.

He closed his eyes again, his head beginning to throb. It was another human feeling he didn't particularly enjoy, along with the grief he had felt for ten decades and a guilt that clung to his back like a jacket. The scene, which he saw over and over, every single day, replayed for the billionth time since the night. A group of angels, brothers and sisters he had known his entire life, ganging up on them. Their blades out at the ready as he stood, helplessly, trying to watch above crackling fire that was circled around him. The stench of the holy oil that kept him held him hostage in this godforsaken trap reached his nose and burned his nostrils.

There wasn't anything he could do. Maybe scream, but that wouldn't help them. They stood next to each other, back to back as the angels around them closed in. His stomach flipped in agony as the blood in his body was pumped quicker and faster thanks to his sped up heartbeat that drummed in his chest like a base. It knocked into his ribcage, the ferocity of its anger polluting his blood and flooding every limb in his body. Everything was fine. Everything was okay. And that's why he was stuck in this dumbass circle, uselessly staring as they were cut and stabbed numerous times, them slicing and piercing repeatedly into every angle they could until there were none left. Until all his brothers and sisters had fallen.

The fire was relentless, however, and refused to break keeping the angel, the only angel that was in that room that didn't want them dead, hostage. If he could just get out of this damn trap, he'd heal them and it'd be okay. His face was contorted with worry and concern as he called to them, but they didn't even look. Their gaze fixed on each other as the taller one went down first, him dropping to his knees as blood began to pool around his legs. The other one fell too, trying to keep the tall one up straight and screaming his name, his own voice hoarse and weak. All he could do though was stand and watch them as they held onto each other for dear life, whispering cooing words to each other until they both sagged over like dolls, the punctures in their bodies ultimately knocking them cold, out. For good.

He screamed their names. He screamed and screamed, water which he didn't know why was forming in his eyes and falling down his cheeks. His heart began to sting, another feeling he hated so damn much, and guilt begin to weigh on his shoulders like bricks. On his chest too. Like someone was placing brick after brick on his chest until he found it hard to breathe. He called to them, hoping to God they'd just wake the hell up. But somewhere deep inside of him, he knew they wouldn't. They had told them that a reaper had warned them, saying that this was their last life. No voodoo magic or angelic gripping or demon deal making could save them, and that thought just added one more brick.

Then the thought that if he had just kept his damn radio on added another brick. If he hadn't gotten so comfortable with the quiet that had fooled him for so long, maybe he wouldn't have obliviously led them into this trap. He wouldn't have been led into his trap that laughed at him with every spark or crackle of flame. Once, after a couple days, the fire died down, he rushed towards the sagged bodies that hadn't moved since the fight. His brothers and sisters were sprawled out dead all around him as well, but the only people he cared about were them.

He shook their shoulders, placed his hand on their heads and used every ounce of angel-juice he had to revive them. To do something to help them. He called to his brothers and sisters and even his damn father to help him bring them back, but the only answers he received were ones filled with sympathy and empathy. No one helped. Some didn't even answer. His father sure as hell didn't. His next thought was to go to Hell, expecting some demons to be the reason they weren't being brought back. He tried to make deals with them, even tortured a few for answers, but they all came back the same. All the abominations said that neither had come to Hell, and if they had, they'd know about it.

His head spun for answers. His chest heaved for air and his stomach flipped with guilt. His next stop was to go to Heaven, maybe negotiate with the angels to allow them to bring them back. When his brothers and sisters gave him a small pat on his shoulder or a tight hug and denied his offer, he then asked if they had even came to Heaven. His siblings said that they had, so his final attempt to getting back the people he had grown to care and love for was to go and visit them in their own Heavens and hope they'd come back. Maybe he'd sneak them out, or try and find a single angel that might help him because surely not all of his family could be on board with the two being contained in their own make-believe realities. Their own afterlives.

Unfortunately, his attempts to seeing them again turned against him and he was kicked out of heaven, _again_. They said once he learned his lesson, he'd be able to return home but joke's on them because that wasn't home. Here, this bunker, was home. Actually, scratch that. With them, he was home, but now they were gone leaving him sad and alone and homeless.

Ever since then, he lit a candle on May second and he ate an entire pie on January twenty-fourth in memory of the two that he had grown to love as friends, as family, as his damn brothers. Ever since then, he had been carrying out their family business, ignoring the pleas of his family when chaos occured and ignoring the menacing demons that'd tease him about his losses. Ever since then, he'd been using his angel mojo, or as they referred to it as, on Baby, their 67' Chevy Impala, making sure her coat was shiny and her engine roared loudly. At one point, he had taken a bat and beaten the car senseless, breaking her roof and her windows and denting every part that he could, taking his anger and rage out on her.

It wasn't just the anger that went into those hits though. One of them had also joked that if anything happened to Baby when he was gone, he'd come back and haunt the bastard that screwed her up in the first place. Hoping that maybe thrashing her tires and ripping the side-mirrors off the car would bring back him back, he continued to smash and hit and slam until she was nothing but a small skeleton of what she used to be. He thought that if maybe he upset them so much, they'd come back as angry spirits or... or something. Anything to see them one last time, moving and talking, even if they were glitching around like they were on a broken TV screen.

Reality sunk in though that they were gone and nothing he did could bring them back. So, instead, he repaired her back to new and kept her alive and healthy throughout the years, driving her around and ganking monsters. Because that's what they would've wanted him to do.

Opening his eyes and being greeted by the all familiar room of the library, he groaned and picked up his bottle, chugging it until it was nothing and standing abruptly. The chair screeched back in anger, but he ignored it all the same and walked towards the front door. Squinting at the sunlight of the afternoon, he walked up the steps to main-ground where he saw Baby waiting patiently to be driven and slid into the front seat. He still had that one case up in Oklahoma, so he twisted the key and was rewarded with the purr of her engine which brought her to life. A small smile blossomed on his face as he was reminded of the happiness that spread through themselves when she roared like this and he switched on one of their favorite stations.

Metallica blasted through the car as he pressed on the gas, taking a deep breath and fixing his eyes on the passing scenery. It would be a ton easier if he just flew, gank the creature and move to the next, but he always decided on the Impala because although she could only speed up to maybe 160 miles an hour, being generous, it was all he had left of family.


End file.
